My Friends,

 

The timing was off.

 

True, there’s nothing that says the Bears can’t win a world championship in some oddball year - and they have six of those to prove it – but the 2007 season is the one that has always been on the calendar. The NFL didn’t even exist in 1919, or else the Bears would have won then, too, but it’s been every 22 years since that they’ve held the top spot.

 

The postseason of the 1941 campaign saw the Bears victorious in their only playoff game against the sinus-infected mucus and urine stained knickers, followed by a 37-9 triumph over a visiting Giants team that actually called somewhere in New York home. The 1963 season was capped off by another defeat of Mara’s boys, this time 14-10 as Bears quarterback Bill Wade scored on a pair of quarterback sneaks at Wrigley Field. And then there was the Mother of all Championships, the Bears’ 1985 humiliation of the NFL on their way to Super Bowl XX victory, which included pitching a 21-0 shutout at Soldier Field against the Giants, then and currently of New Jersey.

 

Maybe that’s it. Maybe things were out of whack because Big Blue didn’t make a postseason appearance in Chicago. It doesn’t matter now, though. The table was set, and the Bears forgot their bread and butter.

 

They forgot to protect the ball. They forgot their running game and short passing game and winning the turnover battle. You look at the halftime stats and wonder how the Bears managed to stay close. Colts: Time of Possession 19:56, 46 offensive plays, 20 runs and eight passes to their backs, 257 total yards. Bears: TOP 10:04, 19 plays, 11 runs and two passes to their backs, 95 total yards.

 

For the game the Bears averaged better than five yards a carry, yet ran the ball only 19 times. Contrast that with the Colts, who handed off 42 times and threw another twelve balls to their backs. In the lousy weather, that was the difference. Rex Grossman never got a chance to manage the game and the defense couldn't catch their breath.

 

And don’t lay the blame on Rex for the rough start. He coughed up one snap but had half as many turnovers as Peyton Manning before the break, when his 120.8 rating was more than 35 points better than Manning’s. The game was lost when Ron Turner insisted on trying to stretch the field at the start while forgetting about the tight end until it was too late. It’s no wonder the defense was gassed in the second half.

 

In fairness, Turner’s play calling may have put the Bears on the ropes, but it was Bad Rex who finished them off with two horrible fourth quarter interceptions while the Bears still had a glimmer of hope. The game reminded me of so many Bears victories this year, only Super Bowl Sunday was opposite day. Like so many Bears games this season, it was the Colts who started out slow and gradually increased their momentum until you looked up at the scoreboard and saw the Bears were behind by 12 as time was slipping away.

 

***

 

While the conditions and the outcome made for a crabby bunch of Bears fans, the weekend as a whole couldn’t have been a better time. The Devins graciously provided room and board on the first night, the board primarily consisting of the bottomless schooner of Miller Lite compliments of Jeremy’s patio tapper.

 

The drive to Miami had its own adventures, starting with the elderly woman driving while holding a cell phone up to her left ear with her right hand, so that her left hand would be free to gesticulate as she cruised down the right lane of Interstate 75 ten miles below the speed limit. The only thing that was missing was the blinking turn signal.

 

Then there was the point where we realized we needed gas about 400 yards short of the Alligator Alley tollbooth, an 80 or so mile stretch of nothing but Everglades on either side. The dirt strip of what passed for a median just ahead provided a convenient place to turn around and return to the exit we had just passed, where a nearby driver asked us what we were dragging underneath the car. No, it wasn’t the elderly woman with the cell phone; just a portion of the plastic undercarriage that had probably come loose during our I-75 reversal. After a fill up and a brief bit of automobile surgery by Pat, the androgynous manager of a local Tire Kingdom, we were back on the road.

 

We made it through the Alley without incident while trying to program a destination that didn’t exist into the Magellan GPS. Note to Thales Navigation: make your map upgrades available for download over the web. When a person is leaving the next day, telling them the upgrade CD will be delivered within the next two weeks is probably going to cost you a boatload of sales.

 

A quick call to Lactose Intolerant provided the correct intersection for our destination, a perfect crash pad for four Bears fans to spend a couple nights. There we found out that Harvey, the fourth member of the entourage, had come up with an additional pair of seats for the game, allowing us to concentrate on more important things. Like dinner at Emeril’s on Miami Beach on the night before the Super Bowl, which Harvey had somehow managed to secure on a dare to his Las Vegas maître d' during an earlier business trip. Harvey is very resourceful.

 

Our reservation was set for 8:30, and LI had the foresight to arrange for a driver so that we wouldn’t have to worry about directions or alcohol consumption. And so at 6:30 Gary, more appropriately known as Mr. Magoo, showed up in his Volkswagen Jetta to chauffeur the four of us 40 miles to South Beach. Magoo: your car is lame. You get an “F.”

 

Half an hour later those preprandial cocktails didn’t seem like such a good idea.

 

It got a little touch and go as traffic crawled along Collins Ave., the street Magoo told us was the only north-south thoroughfare on the Beach. Of course we couldn’t verify this because none of us had a map. Besides, Magoo should know; he’s a professional! So we held on as the low vibration of the unpimped Jetta gently massaged our bladders. Eventually Magoo thought enough to try avoiding the traffic by use of a side street, and Eureka!, he dropped us two blocks from the restaurant and right around the corner from a Burger King with a public washroom. What a guy!

 

We made our way over to the Loews Hotel where Emeril’s was situated and arrived about fifteen minutes early. Harvey checked in with the maître d’, who suggested we have a drink while our table was arranged. The place was packed and guests continued to trickle in until the arrival of the lead dog of the Chicago delegation: Hizzoner Richard M. Daley, da Mare of da Great City of Chicagah.

 

The mayor shook hands with all of his worthy constituents and then found himself a place at the bar with the rest of his party. We wondered aloud why he wasn’t seated immediately, but evidently even the mayor has to wait at Emeril’s.

 

Then we heard somebody say, “You guys talk too loud,” and noticed the Clemenza look-alike leaning against the wall giving us the once-over. Turns out he was on a detail from the Miami Police Department, assigned to the mayor’s security. We introduced ourselves, and another guy showed up to relieve him. “These guys are OK,” Clemenza told his relief, and just about then we were summoned to the dining room, the mayor smiling, still waiting at the bar with a half-filled rocks glass in his hand.

 

The meal was incredible, but no bread of this caliber would be complete without circuses, and our table came through on that front as well. Of particular note was the stunner wearing a tiny white cashmere sweater over a lacy, mid-thigh babydoll. She sauntered back and forth several times, always with her escort close at spiky sandal heel to keep the wolves at bay.

 

Around dessert Clemenza stopped by to say hello and we asked him to join us. He declined, asking where the mayor was sitting. We pointed him toward the room near the kitchen and hoped for the Mayor’s sake that Clemenza wasn’t alone on the detail. Leave the cannoli. Take the gun.

 

We finished our meal, said good night to the mayor and thanked Emeril for a wonderful time, then decided to take a stroll around the pool, completely disregarding the hotel staff asking for some proof we were staying with them. It was midnight, and as a massive display of fireworks was going off just to the south we decided to regale the hotel’s courtyard guests with a chorus of the Bears fight song.

 

Entertainers might say the room had a good “sound” as our voices echoed upward, and while convinced that the quality of our perfect pitch was nothing short of the Three Tenors (plus one) I’m sure a more accurate description would be something closer to a grade school band room. Our first clue was the howls coming out of the rooms, most likely the annoying little lap dogs carried around in hand bags by the island’s high-rise matrons, who no doubt were asking their pool boys to see what all the ruckus was about. All that nip and tuck needs its rest, you know.

 

After the concert we headed out to the spot where Magoo had dropped us off to take bets on when he would return. He was due at 12:30, but traffic was no better at this hour and we knew that wasn’t going to happen, so we took in the scene while we lingered as the non-stop parade of South Beach beauties strutted past. Maybe it was the hour, or possibly the several glasses of wine with dinner, but we all noticed and commented on two things. First, most of the women were very leggy. Second, almost without exception were they wearing at least a three-inch heel. It made for quite a display.

 

While we waited for Magoo another car pulled up and parked in the last legal spot, and out of the back seat stepped a twenty-something blonde with a perfect figure, wearing an iridescent white satin strapless tube dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination. From the other side emerged what probably was her date, a shortish, Calderon-looking guy who came around the car and reached up to give her behind a squeeze. Their third, the driver, also got out, and they spent the next five minutes or so standing around waiting. It was difficult to determine the dynamic between the three, the driver not looking like a chauffeur or big enough to be a bodyguard, so we just shrugged and took it all in. Then a ditzy brunette came barreling toward us, making a hard left at the last second and nosing her black SUV right up to the rear bumper of her friend’s car at a 30-degree angle to the curb. Traffic stopped, for several reasons. The brunette got out, the four of them talked for a while, and then they were on the move. Only the brunette looked confused and was having trouble backing her SUV out of the spot. We couldn’t figure out why, but surmised it was because there wasn’t a “B” on the shift column.

 

We were waiting so long for Magoo that a trip back to the Burger King on the corner was necessary to again use the facilities. While inside, Gus spotted one of the King’s cardboard crowns and borrowed it for later use. Magoo finally showed up, so tardy that we had forgotten who had the longest time in the pool.

 

It was late when we got back to the condo, but as Mojo would say, it was:

 

Gameday.

 

What can only be called an extended nap followed, and around 9am the group collectively stirred. Gus spied the crown he had taken from the Burger King earlier that day and had a thought. They say idle minds are the devil’s workshop, and so Gus occupied himself by carefully carving the Burger King logo out of the cardboard crown in the shape of the classic Bears “C” and then placing it over his Bears cap. Crown their asses, indeed!

 

ESPN was flipped on for saturation pregame coverage, and we derided their predictions of a Bears demise. Amidst a pot of coffee and bowls of cereal we decided our best plan of attack would be to drive one of the cars to South Beach and have Magoo retrieve us there for the ride to the stadium around 4pm. Afterwards the game plan would be to return to South Beach to celebrate or commiserate and make the drive back home. I volunteered to be the designated driver, eye patch at the ready. 

 

We spent the early part of Super Bowl Sunday afternoon at an outdoor table at Señor Frogs on Collins Ave., dodging raindrops and watching the street traffic. Bears fans outnumbered Colts backers by at least two to one, but the verbal jousting was civil, as it was evident that neither side was overly confident of victory.

 

Amazingly, Magoo showed up on time for our ride to Dolphin Stadium and managed to whisk us off Miami Beach pretty quickly. But as we neared the stadium the ride became another tortuous journey, as Magoo sat at a dead stop in the right lane while the three to his left were all moving at various speeds. Magoo assured us the long, sweeping off ramp ahead was the only way to get to the stadium, as the place was isolated from any sort of commerce. I had visions of Dolphin Stadium being kind of like the Meadowlands, where there’s really no place to walk to from the stadium. Again, without a local map we had no reason to doubt him. Not to be redundant, but Magoo was a professional!

 

So we sat in the unpimped Jetta as it inched along the ramp, the tedium broken only by the wail of the periodic police escorted motorcade speeding past on the right shoulder. Again the car’s low vibration was taking its toll, and we jumped out at the first opportunity as Gate 2 and port-o-potties were in sight. Without any better idea, Magoo told us he would pick us up at the same spot after the game. Simple enough, you would think.

 

The game became a test of endurance, as nobody was prepared for a rain that ebbed and flowed but never stopped. It was just cold enough for the inevitable soaking to cause shivers, periodically forcing you underneath the stands to wring out and dry off just a bit. But it wasn’t until the first Grossman interception, the one returned for a touchdown, that the stands really emptied out.

 

After the game Gus and I met up with LI and Harvey and made our way back to the drop spot, where we discovered no cars were being allowed through. Even so, the ever-clueless Magoo was telling LI he would be there in fifteen minutes, but since the rain was coming down heavy and there was no shelter we decided to seek out alternatives.

 

45 minutes later we had circled about 2/3 of the stadium’s perimeter while Magoo was on the phone telling LI that he was almost there, meaning the drop off point. For our efforts we had found a Wal-Mart parking lot where buses were staging and pre-arranged rides were meeting up. This spot was about the same distance from Gate 5 as we usually walk from parking on the west side of Soldier Field to our seats, and would have been ideal if Magoo had any idea it existed. But evidently he didn’t, so Harvey and LI decided to retrace and link up with Magoo, an iffy proposition at best, while Gus and I sought out other transport. About five minutes later Gus found a livery van hawking for customers. 30 minutes later we were back at the condo. It was the best $50 we ever spent.

 

Unfortunately, our car was still in Miami Beach, and thinking traffic wouldn’t be any better on a weekday morning Gus and I decided to go get it. So after a couple hot showers and some dry clothes, we borrowed LI’s Mustang rental and made the trip again. It was 1am.

 

The drive to the garage was a straight shot without incident, although we did discover a couple alternative routes. The way home was another story, though. Northbound traffic was jammed, so we asked Magellan for an alternate route and – voilà! – up pops Alton Road, a four lane parkway through a residential neighborhood about a half mile west. There was hardly anybody on it, but evidently Magoo wasn’t even aware it existed.

 

So there you go. We’d spent 36 hours in the area and figured out simple ways around the two major traffic jams Magoo fought through as a matter of course. Alternate routes might as well have been the Riddle of the Sphinx as far as Magoo was concerned. Oh, well, live and learn, I guess. And next time bring a street map.

 

It would have been nice if Gus and I hadn’t gotten separated on the way back, but we did. Somehow my maniacal pace lost Gus about halfway back to the condo. What made matters worse was that Gus’s phone had shorted out at the game because of all the rain. Not that it mattered, as I’d forgotten my phone back at the condo before we left and couldn’t call him anyway. Understandably, Gus was not a happy camper when he rolled in just after 3am.

 

The next morning we awoke to yet another cloudy, rainy day, with Gus wondering aloud why they called this place the Sunshine State. But the sub-zero temps that hit us when we returned to Chicago reminded us that it didn’t really matter if the sun was hiding when you were walking around in shirtsleeves three hours earlier.

 

***

 

Sometimes, when you chase a dream long enough, you come to realize it was only just that. And so it was for our guys, who gave us a thrill from start to finish but ultimately, grudgingly, proved the so-called experts correct.

 

From Devin Hester taking the opening kickoff to the house to the Colts blowing the extra point on a potential tying touchdown to the Bears following up with a nice dart from Grossman to Muhsin Muhammad for another score, you started to wonder if it was over at the coin flip. Even the missed field goal by their vaunted kicker made you think Mojo’s prophesy that it would matter would come true. And it did, sorta, as Adam Vinatieri’s field goal attempt that hooked wide left ultimately made the game ending total 46 instead of 49, making the bookies pay off the under instead of the over.

 

It was a hell of a ride, but much like the sheets of horizontal rain that fell on the fans, the curtain came crashing down on a team none of the so-called experts expected to play beyond the first week in January. They looked at the Bears’ offense and said their quarterback couldn’t stay healthy, but he started every contest as a virtual rookie and finished second in the league with seven games above a 100.0 rating. They told us the Bears didn’t have a tight end, so Des Clark put up more yardage than any Bear playing the position since Hall of Famer Mike Ditka was defining the spot. They said their schedule was soft, and all the Bears did was go out and take advantage of it to the tune of fifteen wins, more than any Bears team outside of the greatest of all time.

 

The 2006 Bears finished justshort, and the 10^th star will have to wait at least another year.

 

I was talking to my nine-year-old son after I got home, and I asked him what he thought about the Super Bowl. He described Hester’s return to start the game, and you can’t put a value on the way his face lit up as he told the story. But his smile turned to a frown almost as quickly, as he related how he had to watch the game at his cousin’s house, all fans of the urine soiled pants, and how they were all cheering for the Colts. I guess they forgot that if the Bears had won they could have laid claim to being the last team to beat the World Champs, albeit in what was an exhibition game for the Bears. Then again, packer fans have never been much for thinking things through. That’s why they play in a place named after a coach who quit to take the same job with the Cardinals surrounded by streets named after the head coach of the Seattle Seahawks and a former coach of the Redskins.

 

Speaking of that Redskins guy, maybe it’s appropriate that the trophy the Bears won isn’t named after that carpetbagger and instead holds the proud name of the creator of the league, their founder and a guy who died 63 years later still the undisputed name at the top of his franchise’s masthead.

 

As for the spoils, remember that even though the Colts will get (and deserve) the big rings, our guys will get some hardware, too. Maybe the fact that they’ll only say “NFC Champions” will grate on these Bears just enough to make them toss that hunk of gold in the back of a dresser drawer and motivate a push next season that’ll put them over the top. History isn’t on their side, but I wouldn’t bet against them. Those who did this year are still looking over their shoulder, waiting for that visit from Moose and Rocco to help them find their checkbooks. 

 

Their core is set. Tag Briggs, which has to be done by February 22, and then bring in some young blood for the offensive line. Free agency starts March 2 and the draft is April 28. Although now the word is out, you have to like their chances.

 

Sorry for being so long-winded if you managed to stay with this piece up to here, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s the wind up to an amazing year.

 

Hope you enjoyed reading.

 

The Last Bear Fan

February 12, 2007